She had expected it, so made no protest. But the feel of her lips had the effect of an elixir of youth upon him and, taking her passivity for willingness, he gave free reign to his sudden upsurge of passion.
In one violent movement she thrust him from her and cried: ‘What do you take me for? Rich men like you think their money can buy anything. Touch me again and I’ll shout for help!’
Instantly panic seized him. The picknickers nearby might already have heard her. Stories of well-dressed adventuresses who lured elderly men into just such situations, then blackmailed them, flashed into his mind. Stammering an apology, he got the car going, anxious now only to be rid of her and so, having been kicked out of his fool’s paradise, end this inglorious day.
It was as they bumped on to the road that he heard her murmur: ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. By allowing you to drive me out here I asked for it.’
Surprised and very relieved, he muttered: ‘No, no. I’m afraid I behaved very badly.’
She shrugged. ‘Let’s forget it. I’ll still have dinner with you if you want me to. It’s such a lovely evening; why not let’s have something at a country pub?’
Grasping eagerly at her forgiveness, he agreed with a happy laugh. Then, on a sudden impulse, he took the turning that led down to Nettleverge. Five minutes later he pulled up outside the manor house and said: ‘I live here. Would you like to see my garden?’
She gave him a rather queer look, then said: ‘Yes, I’d love to.’
During the hour that followed, her restful charm enraptured him again. As they strolled back to the house for another cocktail, she asked: ‘Would it be possible for us to have dinner here, instead of going to a noisy inn?’
‘Why not!’ he smiled, delighted at the thought. ‘I gave the couple who look after me the day off, but we can easily knock up something for ourselves.’
She cooked an omelette while he got up a bottle of champagne; then, after they had demolished a dish of peaches, they went out and sat on the terrace in the late twilight. For another hour they talked with increasing intimacy and for the first time in many months he felt really happy again. At last the time came for her to go, and as she stood up she said a little sadly:
‘How lucky you are to live here. If I did, I’d never want to leave it.’
‘Then come down and stay,’ he pressed her eagerly. ‘I’d simply love to have you. Come down and stay for as long as you like.’
She hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t that make an awful scandal?’
‘Oh, we’d say you were my niece from Canada, or something.’
‘D’you really mean that?’
‘Of course I do.’
In her laugh there was a slightly hysterical note; then she said soberly: ‘You could hardly be expected to know me again, and I didn’t recognise you till you brought me to the house; but I lived here until I was twelve. My real name is Miranda and I’m the daughter of the housekeeper you had then.’
Suddenly he saw that she was crying as she took his hand, pressed it and whispered: ‘The only carefree, happy hours I’ve ever known were in your garden. It will be just like coming home.’
STORY XXVI
HERE is something quite different—a story for the Talking Screen. As such it is naturally presented in episodic form, but it is none the less a good plot for that, and its setting having a Balkan flavour gives it some claim to inclusion between the covers of this book.
People are always asking me why so few of my full-length novels have been filmed, and I think the answer is, just because they are full-length novels. Books with so many characters and the great variety of scenes necessitated by a constantly moving plot would, if followed faithfully, episode by episode, result in a film longer than Bernard Shaw’s longest play. They can, of course, be reduced to their essential theme without losing anything of their entertainment value; but that is a major work which few people except their authors are usually willing to undertake, and, unfortunately, film magnates have a strange prejudice against letting authors adapt their own books for the film.
Generally speaking, film magnates much prefer to buy the bare bones of a plot and pay anything from six to twenty script writers, most of whom have never had a line of their own composition published in their lives, to elaborate the theme. This invariably costs the company several thousand pounds and, since each of the script writers is dependent for his next job on leaving his individual mark upon the story in hand, the final result is rarely worth one-tenth of the price that has been paid for it. It is this pernicious system of having too many cooks, all with conflicting interests, which results in the story-telling end of film production being on such an extraordinarily low level compared with the other technicalities of the industry.
Having come up against this iron ring of vested interests I thought it would be amusing to try to break into the film game from the other end—by just producing the bare bones of a scenario and, if it was accepted, let the other fellows fight over the body—and I very nearly succeeded.
One afternoon I went down to Shepherd’s Bush to see my old friend Alfred Hitchcock direct the great George Arliss in a film. ‘Hitch’ was a most lovable personality, but Mr. Arliss, very conscious of his greatness which, as one of the most fervent of his admirers, I should be the last to deny, was by no means so forthcoming as most of the film stars I have met. Instead of taking any interest in the proceedings or mingling with the other artists on the set during those innumerable delays to which all film production is subject he spent most of the afternoon in the complete seclusion of a small four-sided garden tent which he had had specially erected at one side of the studio. Hidden from our vulgar gaze he remained resting there, while his valet brought him periodic brews of weak China tea served in his own silver service, except for brief intervals when he emerged to say a few lines of his part before the camera with extraordinary artistry.
The bare sight of him, however, was enough to give me the idea that if only I could build a little story suited to such an outstanding personality I should double my chance of having it accepted.
The story, as it appears here, went in to Gaumont British and, to my delight, Angus McPhail, the gifted chief of their story department, was openly enthusiastic about it. But so great a figure was Mr. Arliss that no story was ever bought for him which had not first received his full approval. He read the script over the week-end and turned it down, his reason being, so I was told, that he felt that the love interest was too prominent and, in consequence, detracted from the central character.
If that is so perhaps the multiplicity of writers who work on the average script is not the only reason why the story-telling end of so many films is chaotic and ill proportioned. No story can be done full justice if one character in it must be given pride of place to the detriment of the others.
Naturally, at the time, I was rather disappointed, but not unduly so, as this outline of an exciting film plot had been fun to do and cost me little time or trouble. And, after all, since Mr. Arliss must be well advanced in years it may be that another actor of his parts is even now climbing towards the throne from which he has enthralled us. Should that be so and the new star chance to read this story, who knows but what it may yet reach a film public of many millions. The film rights are still for sale and praise be to Allah, still my property.
THE TERRORIST
A
DENNIS WHEATLEY
STORY for the Talking Screen
Cast
NICHOLAS THE VII, KING OF SERANOVIA. George Arliss type HIS WIFE, CAROLINE, QUEEN OF SERANOVIA A Woman of fifty LIEUTENANT SASHA RENESCU … A Young Man
(Of the Royal Guard)
STEPHANIE …… A Young Girl
DOCTOR RAILEY …… A Man of fifty
THE CHIEF OF THE POLICE
THE COLONEL OF THE GUARD
Terrorists, Court Officials, Bohemians at the
New Art Club, Crowd, etc.
NOTE
The present manuscript is only
the story in outline, since the limited experience of the author brings him to believe that opportunity should be afforded to the actors in a screen play to build up characterisation thoughout the sequences rather than to produce an elaborate and involved plot which will need considerable cutting to enable the actors to display their personality. Should it be thought necessary, the provision of additional matter for the lengthening of the story is an easy matter as far as the author is concerned.
EVENING. A comfortable homely book-lined room. A man of fifty is seated working at a big desk table. He wears a velvet smoking jacket. Near him a charming white-haired woman of about the same age is lying on a sofa. Her legs are covered by a plaid rug; a woollen shawl is round her shoulders. She is busy knitting.
For a moment we watch them. He works silently and rapidly, examining papers, signing them, transferring a large pile from one basket to another. She has a streaming cold. Every time she blows her nose he looks up with mingled irritation and concern. At length he stands up from his desk and, going over to her, says with real solicitude:
‘Caroline, my dear—to see you like this troubles me. You know your chest is not strong. Won’t you please go to bed.’
She smiles and shakes her head. ‘No, Nicholas. If I did, you would work here all night. Even after all these years I can’t trust you. When you are ready, bed it shall be—but not before.’
He sighs. ‘But, my love, there is always so much to do. If I leave it to others somehow it never seems to get done. What would happen to our work-people if I did not use what little influence I have to better their condition from time to time?’
‘And yet you are faced with another strike.’
‘True. They want a forty-two-hour week now. It seems that they object to working for more than six hours a day. I wonder what they would say if they knew that I work my steady hundred hours a week and more?’
She puts up a hand and strokes his cheek. ‘Nobody who has ever known the real you, Nicholas, could ever help but love you. The trouble is that so few of them ever have the opportunity.’
‘Ah, well.’ He laughs quietly. ‘I shall continue as always to do what I can for them. But you are my first care, and if there is no other way in which I can induce you to take care of yourself, I will abandon work for tonight and we will go to bed.’
He moves over to a side-table where a spirit stove, a saucepan, water, lemon, and whiskey are set; and proceeds to make her a hot grog. In light conversation it is conveyed that this is an invariable ritual when she has a cold and that he will allow nobody to make this specific for his wife but himself.
The grog is made. He presses a bell and she rises from the sofa. Carrying the grog in one hand he offers her his free arm with a courtly little bow. The camera then switches round to a portion of the room unseen before, showing it to be a bigger apartment than might have at first been supposed. Two large double doors are thrown open. Officers and servants in brilliant uniforms are disclosed. A Colonel of the Guards comes forward and salutes. The Grand Chamberlain raps his Rod of Office on the parquet floor. A powdered footman takes the glass of grog. Then, and then only, is it disclosed that this charming homely couple are His Majesty King Nicholas VII of Seravonia and his Queen.
They are conducted through long corridors of the Palace to their apartments. Nicholas bows the Queen into her room and enters the next door along the corridor. A line of half a dozen privates of the Guard stands at attention against the wall opposite the doorways of the two bedrooms, and in front of them, with a drawn sword, a dark, handsome, merry-eyed young officer.
The King pauses for a moment and turning to the Colonel, who is behind him, remarks that he does not remember this young officer’s face. The Colonel then presents the officer as Lieutenant Sasha Renescu. It is the first occasion after joining the regiment for him to be honoured with the duty of Officer of the Guard.
The King says a few kind words to him, recalling the fact that he remembers his father, Colonel Gregory Renescu, who lost his life in the first Balkan war, while bringing dispatches of the utmost value to him, then a young Prince commanding one of the Divisions of the Saravonian Army.
We next see the Queen in bed. The King comes in from the adjoining room in his dressing-gown. He sees that she finishes her hot grog, tucks her up and switches out all the lights except that on her bedside table. Then he kisses her and says: ‘If there is anything you want, my love, you have only to call. I shall leave my door ajar and I am quite near.’
She smiles up to him. ‘Dear Nicholas—always quite near.’
The King in his bedroom. As he gets into bed he produces, with a little smile, the big sheaf of papers which he was not able to finish in his study. He makes himself comfortable in bed and then settles down to work again.
We now see Lieutenant Sasha Renescu walking quietly down the corridor outside the Royal apartment. A private is stationed upon the King’s door, another upon the Queen’s. With slow steps Sasha goes to the end of the corridor and out through two wide french windows on to a terrace. At the extreme end of the terrace we see a sentry on his beat. Sasha glances the other way and another sentry is approaching from the opposite end of the terrace. The two meet just outside the King’s bedroom window, which is next to the lighted one giving on to the corridor, halt, face about, and march off on their beat again.
Another shot of the King. As he deals with his papers he is placing those to which he has attended upon a bedside table. The pile on the counterpane is diminishing. He yawns, but he is still working.
Sasha again in the corridor. Once more we see him walk softly to the french windows. For a moment he leans negligently against the side of the open window and yawns; then goes out on to the terrace.
Six feet below the balustrade we see a garden; a lovely girl in evening dress is standing below. Sasha sees her, his eye brightens, he leans over the balustrade and whistles softly.
The girl looks up. She smiles a little and comes forward into the light which streams out from the corridor window behind him.
‘Who are you?’ he inquires, ‘and how did you get in?’
She replies that she lives in the Palace and is the daughter of one of the chamberlains.
She is so lovely that he is quite certain that he could never have forgotten her face if he had once seen it among those of the ladies of the Court. She reassures him by saying that she has only just returned from living, for the past year, with her aunt in England. That is why he would not have seen her before.
‘What are you doing up so late?’ he asks softly.
‘I could not sleep,’ she tells him. ‘And at night the garden is so lovely.’
They talk for a little, the usual position of such scenes being reversed in this instance. He is on the balcony and she is in the garden below.
The King is shown again, his work completed. He slips all the papers in a drawer beside the bed, gets out, tiptoes over to the communicating door which leads to his wife’s room, listens for a moment, smiles to himself then gets back into bed and switches off the light.
The terrace again. The two sentries are at the extreme limits of their beat. Sasha glances over his shoulder down the corridor. The two other sentries are standing rigid at attention before the doors of the Royal apartments. With a little laugh he flings his leg over the balustrade and slips down into the garden beside the girl. They begin to walk up and down beneath the terrace. He glances up from time to time keeping a watchful eye upon the two sentries who pace backwards and forwards to meet every few minutes and turn about before the King’s window. We then see him whisper something into the girl’s ear. She gives a low delicious gurgle of laughter and presses his arm.
The scene moves to some high bushes. Behind these are four men in dark clothes. Of the two foremost, one is a tall, powerfully-built middle-aged man. He is bare-headed and has an exceptionally high bald forehead, wisps of grey straggling hair fall from the back and sides of his head on to his collar. The other is a young man dressed i
n ragged clothes, his face has the semi-imbecile look of a cretin or one who has been drugged. His eyes are round and staring. In his hand he holds a big automatic. He stands quite rigid and motionless as the elder man points through the bushes to the balcony and whispers in his ear. The two other men stand alert and watchful behind them.
As the elderly man points through the bushes to the balcony, we see Sasha and the girl walking up and down beneath it. The distance of their beat has considerably increased. They come towards the bushes where the four men are crouching and pass them. Suddenly the two rear men of the group spring out and strike Sasha down from behind with bludgeons. The girl runs off into the gardens. The elderly man points again excitedly at the balcony. The two sentries are now at the extremities of their beat. The young drugged-looking man rushes forward, his eyes fixed and unblinking as though he were in a hypnotic trance. He scrambles up over the low balustrade on to the terrace and hurls himself in through the darkened window of the King’s bedroom.
The King’s bedroom. ‘Shot’ from behind his bed. The windows come crashing open. We see the blinding flash of shots as the assassin fires towards the bed. In those brief spurts of light we catch a glimpse of the King’s face as he starts up awake and flings himself off the bed on to the floor at its far side from the window.
The door bursts open. The sentry from the corridor comes rushing in. The two sentries on the balcony appear in the window and seize the assassin. The lights go on. The Queen is standing in the doorway. The King hurries over to her. She sways into his arms and almost faints. We see the would-be assassin dumb, animal-eyed, passive, apparently almost unconscious of his surroundings, being hustled away by the guards.
The Queen’s bedroom. She is again in bed. The King bends over her solicitously.
‘There, there, my love,’ he comforts her.
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